The Jewel of Gresham Green

by Lawana Blackwell

  Dare she slip away and look for him? She could use the excuse of seeking a water closet.

  But then Elizabeth Raleigh appeared out of nowhere. Loretta’s dutiful inquiry as to her health prompted a low-voiced description of morning sickness that made her wonder why anybody bothered to have children.

  As Elizabeth prattled happily about how huge she had gotten while carrying the twins, Loretta’s mind traveled back to the embrace in the garden. She could feel Donald’s strong arms around her. “London,” he had said, affirming that they would resume their friendship in a more favorable clime. If only time would speed ahead.

  When no cheque had arrived by Tuesday, worry robbed Loretta of sleep. Had the telegram actually reached her father? How tragic it would be for Donald to lose his house over a simple kink in the line. What would he think of her?

  Wednesday morning, she dressed in her amethyst-and-gray silk gown and pinned on a straw hat.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hollis,” Jewel said from the stove.

  “Good morning. Don’t cook breakfast for me. Perhaps an early lunch. I want to get my hat from that dreadful millinery woman.”

  “If you’ll wait until Becky takes her nap, I’ll go for you.”

  “No, thank you. A walk will be lovely. It seems a bit cooler outside.”

  The twins were in the Raleighs’ garden, too engrossed in blowing bubbles to pay her any mind. Still, she walked quickly, lest Elizabeth come outdoors and pounce upon her with more pregnancy details.

  She hoped to have children herself one day. She enjoyed Becky’s winsome presence in the cottage. She adored, in a bittersweet sort of way, Conrad and Irene’s fair-headed two-year-old son, Stephen. But with a future so uncertain, it was fortunate that it had never happened.

  Lately, it would have been a miracle if it had.

  “I smell rain in the air!” an elderly woman called from a cottage garden.

  Loretta looked up through elm branches at the few benign white clouds, and wished her good day.

  The woman behind the counter had yet to look up from her magazine.

  Donald cleared his throat. “Miss Perkins?”

  She jerked her head up, slapped the magazine shut, and squeaked, “Mr. Gibbs!”

  “You mentioned that you sell men’s hats?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “I’d like to have a look at your wares.”

  She giggled, lashes batting as if hinged at the lids. “But of course.”

  She hastened around the counter, took his arm, and almost pulled him to a dressing table. While he sat on a stool before an oval mirror, she pressed assorted sizes of silk top hats, felt bowlers, and straw boaters onto his head, leaning to peer into the mirror over his shoulder so that her ample cleavage was shown to best advantage.

  Donald smiled at their reflections, sick to his stomach. After the funeral, Mr. Baker had asserted that not one drop of money would be available until the will was read. That he may not even sell one silver fork, one painting, or one horse to save his house, without facing charges of thievery.

  He believed in his charms, and had patiently waited for Loretta Hollis’s cheque to arrive from her father. But only two days remained until the mortgage was due. He had paced a trail in his bedchamber carpet. Time for another plan.

  Thus he sat allowing Miss Perkins to press her bosom into his back. Owning her own shop meant she had money.

  “Sorry, won’t do at all,” he said, lifting a silk hat from his head and adding it to the stack upon the dressing table. Some had edged to fall to the carpet, only to be ignored. He swiveled around to face her. “I shall have to go elsewhere.”

  Her lips formed a pout. “There’s no elsewhere but Shrewsbury. Why would you want to go to all that trouble when my hats are just as good?”

  Minus those on the floor, he thought. He glanced toward the curtain behind the counter. “Perhaps you have more in the back?”

  “They’re all out here.”

  “Not even one?”

  Her shoulders rose and fell with her sigh. “I’m afraid not.”

  Take a hint, you stupid twit. He arched his eyebrows at her. “Perhaps you’ve overlooked one in some dark corner? I could help you look.”

  Understanding flooded her eyes. A smile curled her full lips. She squeaked, “That would be very kind, sir.”

  “Has the mail been sent out?” Loretta asked Mr. Sanders in the post office side of Trumbles.

  “An hour ago,” he said, tinkering with a stamp machine. “I sort the incoming in the afternoons, and it goes out mornings.”

  “Do you recall anything for Mrs. Philip Hollis?”

  He chewed a lip thoughtfully. “I’m fairly sure there was nothing.”

  “Could it be that the telegram I sent to London last week was misdirected?”

  “Sometimes problems do happen. But most times we know.”

  “It may have been sent to the wrong address,” Mr. Trumble called from his side. “London’s a big metric-polis.”

  At her insistence, Mr. Sanders tapped out a new message: Please send fifteen pounds at once. Loretta.

  The at once was the only new addition to the message of nine days ago. But even so, would the cheque arrive in time? Mail from London took three days.

  If only she had thought to bring along some money from the household account. She had directed packing in a daze: clothes, toiletries, and jewelry.

  A bell tinkled and two women entered just as a thought struck her.

  Jewelry.

  In particular, her pearls, hidden away with her jewelry pouch . . . just in case—after Donald had warned her that Becky liked to plunder.

  She loitered before a rack of sewing notions, though she had never taken a stitch in her life. The women completed their purchases and launched into a maddening debate with Mr. Trumble over whether rain was indeed coming.

  “How would you know?” one teased him. “Stuck indoors as you are.”

  Mr. Trumble patted his shoulder. “My rheumatism knows. Care to make a wager?”

  The two left the shop in giggles.

  Loretta approached the counter with a brass thimble. At least Becky could spin it on her finger. She said, casually, “Are there not places where you may borrow money against valuables? Such as jewelry?”

  “Why yes. But not here. In Shrewsbury. They’re called ‘pawn lenders.’ ”

  “Will they return the valuable when you repay the loan?”

  “Certainly. But at a barrelful of interest.”

  “Then, it’s safe to deal with them?”

  “Yes, I think. There are laws they’re bound to, just as this place. Mr. Stillman of the Larkspur . . . he goes down there on the look for military medals and war memo-randums.”

  There was still time. She had only to get her pearl necklace to Donald, to pawn in Shrewsbury. If Jewel balked at delivering it, she would take it herself.

  She thanked the shopkeeper and scooped up the thimble. The pair who had spent so much time at the counter chatted outside the shop clutching paper bags. One said to the other, “She may be snooty, but you’ve promised Amelia a bonnet for her birthday. Will you disappoint her?”

  My hat, Loretta thought. Not wishing to wait yet again behind the two, she dashed around them.

  “Pardon me, ladies.”

  She swung open the door, but did have the courtesy to hold it open for them, now that it was established that she was first. The curtains behind the counter parted and Priscilla came through. She gaped at Loretta and the women, turned to close the curtain shut, and half squealed, half giggled, “Not yet, Donald!”

  Fear and outrage propelled Loretta across the shop and around the counter.

  “See here now!” Priscilla cried as Loretta yanked aside the curtain.

  Donald Gibbs stood on the other side, looking disheveled but not dismayed. “Sorry, Loretta.”

  “Out!” Priscilla shrieked, tugging at Loretta’s arm.

  Loretta jerked away, consumed by rage. “I was goin
g to pawn my necklace! I would have left my husband for you!”

  It was only then that she remembered the women. She looked over her shoulder. Their eyes were wide, as if to absorb as much of the scene as possible.

  “And I appreciate it,” Donald was saying. When she faced him again, he smiled and patted his coat pocket. “But that won’t be necessary.”

  Chapter 32

  Loretta’s feet could not move swiftly enough. She would have gathered her skirts and sprinted if her upbringing would have loosened some constraints. It seemed every schoolyard child ceased chasing and spinning to stare, every cottage gardener ceased clipping and digging to gape. Even the good mornings chirped her way did not fool her. They knew her shame! It was written on her face!

  But it was nothing compared to the picture in her mind of Philip hearing the news. She had given him every reason to think the worst.

  Elizabeth stood at her letter box and turned to smile. “Why, good morning, Loretta.”

  Loretta ignored her.

  “Loretta?” she heard from behind.

  On the path, she did kirtle her skirts and run. Pounding the dirt made her teeth stop chattering. If only she could run and run and run, to a place where no one knew her. Or better yet, run back to the past and take the place of the Loretta of one month ago.

  Savory aromas met her inside the cottage, but did not whet her appetite. Jewel ceased polishing a lamp to give her a worried look.

  “Mrs. Hollis? What is it?”

  Becky, stacking blocks with Tiger dozing nearby, looked up.

  “Nothing!” The hem of Loretta’s gown toppled blocks and sent the cat dashing away as her foot hit the first step. Upstairs, she threw herself across her bed. The teeth-chattering returned with a vengeance. She lay on her side, curled up into a sorry ball of humanity. Her left palm ached. She opened it, realized she had clutched the thimble until it made an impression into her flesh.

  And she had forgotten her hat.

  If it ever came back into her possession, she would stomp on it. It had been the source of her woes. If only she had never stumbled into Donald Gibbs.

  A soft knock sounded as she wept into her pillow. “Mrs. Hollis?”

  “Go away,” she rasped.

  But the door opened, and Jewel stuck her head around it. “May I not bring you some lamb stew, ma’am? Some tea?”

  Loretta sniffed. “Can you bring me my life back? You’ll be pleased to know you were right about Donald Gibbs.”

  “It doesn’t please me at all.” Jewel entered the room, went over to the chest of drawers, and brought out a folded handkerchief.

  Loretta snatched it from her and blew her nose. “Now leave me alone.”

  “I’ll answer that, Wanetta,” Julia called, coming out of the water closet after washing garden soil from her hands. They felt damp, even though she had dried them. She wiped them upon her skirt, just in case a hand should be thrust at her.

  She could only hope this visitor would not be one of the more chatty villagers. Dora and Wanetta were laying the cloth for lunch, and Philip would be there any minute.

  Swinging open the door, her heart sank. Mrs. Hopper of Milkwort Lane stood there, her expression a mingling of pity and, oddly, excitement.

  “I must speak with you and the vicar at once.”

  “I’m afraid he’s unavailable, Mrs. Hopper.” Of truth, Andrew was upstairs with Aleda, reading her latest serialization. But she had the right to determine what unavailable meant in her own home.

  “Well, my sister-in-law, Maida, and I witnessed a terrible row between Mr. Gibbs and your daughter-in-law. I recognized her from church, with the blond hair.”

  After hearing the story, followed by Mrs. Hopper’s lament that the younger generation had life too easy and thus were lacking in morals, Julia thanked her for coming.

  Eagerness quivering her cheeks, the woman said, “What will you do, Mrs. Phelps?”

  “My family will tend to the matter. You should hurry. I see some dark clouds on the horizon.”

  There was no use in asking Mrs. Hopper to keep this to herself. Like a wave, the news had probably swept through Gresham by now.

  Upstairs, Andrew groaned into his hands over the news.

  Aleda slapped her desk with a loud whump. “That hussy!”

  Julia had thought to tell her husband in private, but Aleda would hear it the first time she connected with anyone outside the vicarage anyway.

  “We can’t keep this from Philip,” Andrew said.

  “No, we can’t,” Julia agreed. This was Gresham. From downstairs, she heard the door open and close.

  Jewel was clearing dishes from the table when Philip entered.

  “Doctor Hollis!” she exclaimed.

  “Don’t worry,” he assured her. “I took my lunch at the vicarage.”

  “It isn’t that.” She glanced upstairs. “It’s Mrs. Hollis. She’s in a bad way.”

  Philip nodded. Becky was smiling up at him, as if hoping for his attention. Even in his tormented state, he stretched out a listless arm to ruffle her red curls.

  “Will you take Becky out to the garden?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Loretta lay curled upon the coverlet, half of her crimson-splotched face pressed into her pillow. He felt a surge of pity for her. It was good that he had heard the news some distance away. Most of the anger had worked out of his system during the walk over. Replaced by a startling awareness.

  He stepped over to sit on the side of the bed. She curled her elbow beneath her head to blink up at him through slits.

  “Loretta.”

  She coughed, wiped her nose with a sodden handkerchief. Having spent so little time in her bedchamber, he had no idea where she kept others, so he took his from his pocket.

  She blew her nose again and croaked, “I’m so sorry, Philip. Can you forgive me?”

  He hesitated. It would be easier when the wound was not so fresh. “Why does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “I believe I’ll be able to, one day. But our marriage is over. That should make you happy.”

  “But we didn’t do anything!” she blubbered. “He only embraced me once, and only because . . . I offered to lend him some money.”

  “Then why the scene in the shop, Loretta?”

  Dully, she said, “I was flattered by his attention. But when I realized he was only using me . . .”

  “There’ll only be someone else after Mr. Gibbs.”

  Anger suffused through the misery in her face. “Philip . . . I’m not that sort of woman.”

  “You were that sort of girl, Loretta.”

  She gaped at him. “I beg your pardon?”

  He sighed. “Your parents denied you nothing, so you never learned how to accept loss and move on. When Conrad left, you couldn’t cope. You threw your hopes into me, that I could be a substitute. If I hadn’t been available, it would have been someone else.”

  “That’s not so.”

  “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at him, a hundred times. When I couldn’t make you forget Conrad, you had to start looking elsewhere. My parents say love should be built upon a foundation of friendship. That takes time. Yet you decided you loved me, and then I suppose Mr. Gibbs, within days.”

  She opened her mouth as if gasping for air, as if about to protest, when she burst into fresh tears and scrubbed at her temples with her fists. “I can’t stop thinking of Conrad! It’s as if he lives in my mind. You don’t understand!”

  “No, I don’t,” he admitted. “Can you not will yourself to stop?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” She lowered her head again to the crook of her arm, blinking dully, sniffing. “At times, he wasn’t even that pleasant. He once called me an idiot. The stronger his criticisms, the more I adored him. Irene’s marriage isn’t as happy as she lets on. I’ve seen the way he speaks to her when he’s in ill temper.”

  Philip cast about in his mind for what next to say. If only he had asked h
is parents’ counsel when they broke the news in the parlor. The mental image of the scene brought another picture into his mind. He rested a hand upon her arm.

  “Did you notice the small watercolor of Saint Jude’s in my parents’ parlor, Loretta?”

  Her head shook, slightly.

  “It was painted by a boy with a severe clubfoot. He’ll never be able to play the typical boyhood games. Yet he doesn’t sit around grieving over what he can’t have. He’s fastened his attention upon his art.”

  After several seconds, she said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Perhaps by willing yourself to forget Conrad—as I just foolishly suggested—you must still concentrate on him. But if you fill your mind with the good things you do have, until it becomes a habit, Conrad would eventually be forced out.”

  “Forced out,” she murmured.

  “Perhaps not all at once. It would probably be gradual. Like leakage.”

  Another second passed. She coughed a small laugh. “Leaked out?”

  “Through your ears, I would suppose. The nose would be disgusting, and you’ve taxed it enough today anyway.”

  This time her shoulders shook with her laugh. She wiped her eyes.

  “I’ve never said how much I appreciate your sense of humor.”

  He patted her arm.

  “Is our marriage really over?” she asked.

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Will you not give me a chance to outgrow that willful child you so aptly described?”

  He longed to take her in his arms, say how much he loved her. But the wounds were too deep to simply pour salve over and declare them healed. He needed to see evidence that she was over Conrad. That she loved him, before risking more pain.

  “We’ll talk later.” He got to his feet, said gently, “I have a baby’s cleft lip to repair.”

  She looked stricken. “A baby’s?”

  “A girl.” Gently he said, “We’re not the only people with problems, Loretta.”

  He could hear her swallow.

  “I know you’ll do your best for her, Philip.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Will you . . . come back this evening?”

  “Of course.” That had not been his intention, but intentions were to be servants, not masters. While staying at the vicarage would be the wisest course, it would increase the humiliation she had suffered. Yes, she had brought it upon herself, but she was still his wife.